


Mater Puerorum

by algae_dad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU where all the adults in Harry's life pay attention, Abused Harry Potter, Adopted Harry Potter, Aftermath of Torture, Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alternate Ending, Angst, Bisexual Remus Lupin, Black Hermione Granger, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Child Neglect, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Cruciatus, Depressed Harry, Disability, Disabled Harry Potter, Disabled Remus Lupin, Epilepsy, Epileptic Harry Potter, Epileptic Luna Lovegood, Fix-It of Sorts, Gay Sirius Black, Gen, Harry Potter is an angsty teen and That's Valid, Harry Potter was Raised by Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, J. K. Rowling can catch these hands, Magical Realism, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, McGonagall is a lesbian, Medical Jargon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Person of Color Harry Potter, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Realistic effects of magical trauma, Seizures, Smart Weasley Twins, Trans Luna Lovegood, canon child abuse, or is going to be, they're also all queer so jot that down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-07-02 16:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/algae_dad/pseuds/algae_dad
Summary: For the second time in his life, Harry was subjected to an Unforgivable Curse. For the third time in his life, he watched someone die. For the fourth time in his life, he came face-to-face with the man who killed his parents. And as always, he's fine. He's fine. He has to be.or; he was the first person to ever survive the killing curse, and the first ever to discover its lasting effects





	1. Celtis Integrifolia

Harry is talking with Fred and George in the Gryffindor commons—or rather, Harry is listening animatedly as the pair trip over each others words trying to describe every bit of planning that's gone into the joke shop since he loaned them his winnings. They insist it's a loan but honestly, Harry has no idea what he'd do with that kind of money even if it didn't stink of death to him.

“Since you've done us the honor of being our first-”

“And best-”

“And only donor, we decided you-”

“Should know exactly what magnificent schemes we've been up to-”

“If and when we get up to them.” Fred finishes for them, with a surprisingly sheepish grin. Harry nods at them, and goes to open his mouth to respond. And stops. He tastes copper; at first, he thinks with a sigh that he's somehow bleeding again, but he doesn't feel any blood in his mouth, just the metallic taste filling his mouth and the smell filling his nose.

“Harry-”

“Are you-”

“Doing alright?” George asks, before abandoning the shared sentences in favor of some genuine concern, “We didn't overwhelm you with our brilliance, did we?”

This gets a scoff out of Harry, but his face is confused and his speech slow, “No… Do you… smell that?” 

The twins look to each other in alarm at their friend's behavior, then look back at Harry just in time to see him drop to the floor.

“Blimey! Harry what's happened, are you alright?” Fred yells as he and his twin rush forward to him, but Harry isn't responding. George goes to get McGonagall while Fred shakes Harry, trying to get him to wake. He's running through all the curses and poisons that could cause this when Harry starts jerking. It starts at his arm and evolves until it looks like his whole body is reacting to cruciatus. Something about this seems familiar: a muggle show his father watched, a ‘medical drama’ he'd called it, and one of the muggles had looked awfully similarly, but what was it…

“Seizure!” he shouts, just as his Head of House storms in with his twin right behind.

“I should think so, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall agrees upon seeing Harry twitching violently on the ground, before wordlessly levitating him, “I'm bringing him to Madame Pomfrey at once. You two should see about packing for break,” the twins both look indignant at this, clearly intent on following, and McGonagall sighs, “You'll be no help to Harry now, and Pomfrey will need her space to work. I will give you an update once he is stable.” She promises, her voice going softer at the end. With that, she leaves, walking Harry’s still shaking body in front of her.

“Well George?” Fred asks as soon as she's out of earshot.

“Of course, Fred,” His brother responds, already pulling an Extendable Ear out of his pocket, “we would do well to listen to our Head of House.” He wiggles the ear for emphasis and they both grin determinedly.

\--

Harry wakes, not for the first or even the tenth time, in the hospital wing. He half-heartedly thinks that he really should stop making a habit of this, but that's all he has time to think before the vague form he assumes is Pomfrey notices he's awake and is on him.

After about two minutes of poking, prodding and wand-waving she harrumphs, “Really, Mister Potter, you must stop ending up here.”

“Well ‘s not like I've had much choice in it,” he grumbles back, his mouth and throat painfully dry. He feels regret for his attitude when Pomfrey flushes but honestly, it’s not like he  _ wants _ to be here. “So, what's the damage this time?” He's expecting something didn't quite go right with the healing of his leg, or that the scar decided once again to be a ginormous prick.

Madame Pomfrey looks serious, however, and not in her normal you-should-have-listened-to-me kind of way. “You had a seizure. A Grand-Mal to be precise.”

And the deck of cards that is his slowly rebuilding hope for normalcy crumbles. Harry takes a moment to feel around for his glasses and slips them on, hoping that being able to see what's in front of him will provide some form of clarity. “Why?”

“The damage from the killing curse apparently went deeper than the scarring on your forehead,” his fingers trace the scar without thinking, “it also damaged your brain; we weren't able to detect the injury when you were an infant due to a combination of our diagnostic spells not including information on the killing curse for fairly obvious reasons, and because your young magic had already made good work of healing it.” Pomfrey seems ashamed that the damage wasn't detected. Harry is even more confused as to what happened after hearing the explanation.

“But if it healed,” he starts slowly, picking out the words, “then how could it cause a seizure?”

Some of the bustling anger he is used to from the healer comes back into her voice, “I, too, had that question, before I was informed that you had suffered the cruciatus curse at the end of the Tournament,” here he is torn between feeling sheepish that he didn't tell her and angry that he is seemingly being blamed for neglecting to recite each gory detail of that horrible night  _ again _ , “and I believe that may have been the trigger for this epileptic event. While it is true that the damage to your brain was long-healed, it left scarring in your frontal lobe; the cruciatus curse no doubt disrupted the scarring and caused damage of its own. But,” she puts up a hand, accurately sensing that he's preparing quite a few more questions, “we will get into the details at a later time. Right now you have quite a few anxious visitors, and with your permission I will let some through before you go back to resting.” Harry lets out a frustrated huff at being kept in the dark, but waves his assent for his friends to be let in.

Pomfrey knows that Potter is angry with the seeming lack of information, but she also knows from her experience as a healer that he'll need more time to process what happened without being swamped with potion schedules, success rates and medical jargon. So she lifts the warding on the hospital wing to allow those with a genuine interest in Harry's well-being from its placement at ‘medical emergencies only’, and watches in amusement at the identical redheads that fall through the previously locked double doors, with another pair of short and long haired redheads and a head of bushy brown hair following in much the same fashion. As Hermione and the Weasley siblings picked themselves up from their heap on the floor to go and visit Harry, a particularly mangey black dog steps around them and pads over to her.

“Mr. Black,” the dog inclines its head, “is there a reason you have come to me instead of following the hoard of children to Mr. Potter’s sickbed?” The dog huffs and shakes itself, and suddenly Sirius Black is standing before her, looking just as haggard as his animal counterpart.

His voice is grave when he speaks, “I want to know what happened to my godson, Poppy. He was given a clear bill of health not two weeks ago!” Pomfrey resists the urge to snap at his rudeness as she would have when he was a student; though some may doubt it, she was trained to handle the volatile emotions of patients’ families with grace and ease.

“Mr. Potter was admitted after a Grand Mal seizure. I was unaware as to what could have triggered it, as relevant parties neglected to inform me he had been subjected to the cruciatus curse,” Sirius bares his teeth, and Pomfrey is unsure whether it is due to being accused of misconduct or simply the reminder of the pain his godson had endured, “I believe the stimulation to the parietal lobe disrupted the scar tissue remaining from his encounter with the killing curse, causing the subsequent seizure.”

Sirius’s face is pale and his breaths come shallowly, “But he’s alright now, Poppy? You’ve healed him?”

She sighs and gestures for him to take a conjured seat, looking briefly to the bed of the boy in question and making sure his attention is sufficiently held by his young friends. “I had hoped to discuss this once Harry has had time to process what his body has been through. To answer your question: no, I have not healed him,” Pomfrey has to raise her hand immediately to stop Sirius’s cry of outrage, “not for lack of trying. The brain is a complex thing, Sirius, the magical brain even more so. You have to understand that  _ no one  _ has ever survived the killing cures. The long-term effects on the brain are completely unknown, and I was unable to observe how he progressed until he arrived at Hogwarts. Harry has, in essence, suffered what muggle doctors call a traumatic brain injury. While this is an area that muggles are infinitely more studied in, even they cannot predict the exact effects such an injury will have on the development and function of the brain. His suffering from the cruciatus curse alone would be cause for much concern, as it has been known to cause chronic issues in even full-grown wizards. Adding that to his previous damage, well…”

“What, Poppy!” SIrius snaps, only just remembering to keep his voice low before casting a  silencing charm around them, “What is wrong with him? Is it,” the heat drops from his voice, and a haunted look comes to his eyes, “is it like the Longbottoms?” In this moment, Pomfrey is hit not for the first time by how  _ young _ this man is. How young, barely over thirty, to have seen the deaths and permanent injuries of nearly everyone he called a friend, and to have been isolated and blamed for over a decade alone with his grief.

Without a second thought, she stands and pulls him into a short yet fierce hug. When she lets go, she schools her face into a poor mask of professional detachment. “He has full access to his mental and physical faculties,” she pushes past the bone-shaking sigh of relief from the man before her, “and he will live a relatively unimpaired life.”

“Relatively?” his voice cracks. Sirius has his hands clasped in front of him, his legs bouncing not unlike he’s  a rather bad case of fleas.

“This seizure will almost definitely not be an isolated occurrence. The scarring covers much of his frontal and parietal lobes, the areas responsible for complex thought, movement, and interpretation of sensory input; parietal lobe damage is not unheard of after untreated use of the Cruciatus curse, as the area controls the sensation of pain. The nature of his seizures may change—”

Sirius interrupts, “Hold on, nature of the seizures? Isn’t a fit just when someone drops and their limbs go all haywire?”

“That would be a Grand Mal seizure, the type of fit Harry had this afternoon. According to the most recent muggle literature I could find, there are many different types of seizures, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Harry has suffered some of the less noticeable types, such as one that simply ceases conscious thought, during his youth. In any case, the main types of seizures to be expected from the locations of his scarring are these same Grand Mals, seizures that originate in only one part of his brain and may present minimal symptoms of movement in one part of the body called complex partial seizures, and somatosensory seizures, which cause the sensation of something, commonly a feeling of electricity or pain.” Pomfrey can tell Sirius has processed little of her speech, but she takes no offense; she was saying it as much for her own benefit, to sort the information, as it was for him to hear. 

He runs shaking hands over his face, “Is there nothing we can do? Can you not just remove the scarring?”

She gives him a sympathetic smile and shakes her head, “I’m afraid not. Most spells and potions for healing scars offer merely cosmetic changes, and none are intended for internal use; it’s more than likely that any attempt would only worsen the damage.”

“So we give up.”

Her face hardens, “We will do  _ no _ such thing. I have already been working with Professor Snape and my contacts in muggle hospitals to develop potions assisting with the severity, frequency, and after-effects of his seizures. Hear this, Sirius,” she grabs one of his hands firmly within both of her own and stares into his wide eyes, “I am  _ not _ giving up on Mr. Potter, and I never plan to. Do you understand?” She shakes his hands in emphasis, and after a moment, as if the question has just passed to his brain, he clears his throat and nods. “Good. Now go see your boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did,, so much research on epilepsy for this fic. too much, one might say. but one would be wrong! anyways, ooo sirius is gonna talk to harry, but who else is? and who will be notified of harry's condition? and what else has poppy's examination revealed????? this is me creating fake suspense nothign surprising happens in this fic its just good hurt/comfort to cleanse my soul. the abuse reveal will happen pretty soon, and i want to make it clear that the abuse will not stray from canon, it's just going to be looked at realistically (cause really this boy should have been an obscurus holy Fuck he was so abused). malnutrition, lack of proper medical care, verbal abuse, threats of violence, neglect in pretty much all ways. yeah. not great.  
> as always, comments cure my depression


	2. Mitragyna Inermis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mentions of hallucination, non-graphic discussion of child abuse/neglect, and belittling/normalizing of abuse

Pomfrey only lets his visitors stay for ten minutes, and while he feigns annoyance, Harry is glad when the matron starts ushering his godfather, Hermione and the Weasleys away. As much as he loves and appreciates his friends, it would be hard to deal with their questioning even if he wasn't bone-tired (if he has to reassure one more Weasley that no, Sirius Black is _not_ going to kidnap him the second they turn away…) and he welcomes the silence that comes with their absence. Pomfrey leaves too, telling him to get some rest and that they have “further test results” to discuss in the evening, her anxiety-inducing statement removing all his desire to sleep.

He sits in his nerves, letting thoughts of all the discoveries Pomfrey could have made needing _more_ rest to approach than learning he’s brain damaged run wild in his foggy head. Sirius had been cautious around him (in the short time Harry’s known the man, he has been anything but hesitant, taking in all conversations like a man starved, often completely unaware of other people’s boundaries or even names), enough that Harry is sure Pomfrey told him something. Some part of him is angry that again, details about _his_ life have been deemed too sensitive for himself to know, but mostly he is tired. It seems like the only breaks he gets are these, moments in the hospital wing, alone in between battles of life and death. Honestly, Harry just wants a _rest._

“The diagnosis is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

His whole body jerks at the voice, stiff muscles twitching and aching as he scrambles for his glasses, though by the blonde and blue blur and the lilting voice he can already tell who it is: Luna Lovegood, standing in line with the window to the left of his bed. He doesn’t know her, exactly; they’ve never met, but Ginny had pointed her out at breakfast one morning and declared: “She’s my new best friend.” And given his status as unwilling celebrity, he’s also incorrectly assumed to be a drama hound, so he gets approached whenever another student like Luna is reaching his level of notoriety (fame or infamy, depending on the month).

“H-hello, Luna.” He says, unsure how to respond beyond that.

Based on the smile spreading wide on her face, his response was enough, “Hello Harry! I know seizures can be stressful, so I came to visit and ward off any Wrackspurts.” Sensing his confusion, she elaborates, “They’re invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy. Since fits do the same thing I figure we shouldn’t risk it.” It seems as if smiling is the default state of her face, and her eyes drift around and away from his face as she talks.

Harry files Wrackspurts away as yet another thing no one decided to inform him about in the wizarding world; of what the younger student has said, a magical creature he hadn’t heard of was the _least_ confusing. “How’d you know I had a seizure?”

Her smile fades a little as she answers, though her tone remains bright and airy, “I recognized the potions Madame Pomfrey ordered. I get seizures too.” Luna is still looking away from him, now fiddling with a multi-colored hair wrap that was previously obscured by the rest of her hair.

“Oh.” _Really Harry? Is that the best you can do?_ He clears his throat and starts again, “That’s… really nice of you, to check up on me. How long have you had them?”

She hums, twirling the yarn-covered hair around her finger, “It’s hard to say. My seizures cause hallucinations, but the Sight runs in my family as well, so for a while my father thought I was just an early bloomer. As long as I can remember, really.” she finishes.

The lack of eye contact has lead Harry’s eyes to wander as well, and he only now realizes that Luna’s hair accessory is all of the house colors. For some reason, that detail settles him. Suddenly, her eyes lock back on his, with pupils blown wide, and her voice when she next speaks is strangely distant. “Not having control is a scary feeling, especially when it’s your own body taking over. Just remember, Harry Potter: sometimes it’s okay to let go of the broom.” A silent moment passes, and then her gaze softens, her grin returning. She wiggles her fingers in goodbye. As she walks away, he dully notices her mismatched socks, one in Gryffindor colors and one in Hufflepuff, with their respective mascots visible on the soles. Because she isn’t wearing shoes.

At this point, Harry’s just glad to meet someone that makes _him_ feel normal.

\--

“If Madame Pomfrey made us leave then I have to trust that it's for good reason; from what I've read, people are normally very fatigued after a seizure, so I'm sure he needs the rest.” Hermione says, trying to placate her friends, still keen on breaking back into the hospital wing. As soon as they were pushed out, Sirius Black changed into his dog form and ran in the direction of this floor’s floo (she couldn't help but think how risky a move that had been, walking into the hallway undisguised, but she understands his mind was elsewhere).

Ron sighs, his face still splotchy-red from his frustration, and speaks up, “Mione’s right. ‘Sides, I'm sure Harry wants us to keep updated on the outside world for him. And I need start packing…”

Hermione gasps and smacks his shoulder, to the delight of his siblings, “Ronald! We're meant to be on the train home tomorrow morning!”

Ginny snorts, “Yeah _Ronald_ ; even Harry started packing last night.” Ron defends himself against the joking and serious assault from the two girls, Ginny taking the time to exact revenge for all the mocking he did about her tween crush on Harry, while Hermione argues methodically the benefits planning ahead for once in his life.

The twins watch the younger teens with equal parts humor and fondness, Fred commenting, “It seems ickle Ronniekins is quite popular.”

“Yes; he's quite fortunate to have had our our extensive _training_ for these exact circumstances.” George agrees, earning a snicker from his twin. Once Ginny and Hermione have dragged their littlest brother far enough down the hallway, berating him all the way, George reaches into his pocket and brandishes his wand, Fred doing the same.

“Now, of course, we too will be off to pack our bags and make sure the youth aren't up to no good,” Fred whispers in a posh accent as they make their way into the hidden tunnel in the walls the hospital wing, sneaking to the side of the building they'd noted Harry's bed was at.

“Quite right, Fred old boy: we must keep an _ear_ out for trouble,” George whispers out, before pointing his wand at his respective Extendable Ear and reciting, “ _amplificandae orationis_.” Being in their prototypal state, the charm on the ears must be reapplied every few hours, but it's a small price to pay for information.

Casting a quick locating spell for Harry, Fred guides George to the right spot in the tunnel and together they bunker down, George having the foresight to transfigure some rocks on the ground into throw cushions to sit on. The key to a proper stake out, after all, is patience, and the twins are no amateurs.

\--

That feeling of normality is, of course, short lived, as he hears the clack of definitely-shoed feet approaching his bed. In seconds, Madame Pomfrey and a stormy Professor McGonagall are in front of him, with Pomfrey immediately waving her wand over his body. Once her wand movements stop, a parchment appears, and she reads it and sighs, comparing it to another parchment from her robes.

“Is something wrong?” Harry asks when the two women make no move to explain their presence. Honestly at this point he's used to being kept out of the loop, but being blatantly ignored is a new low he refuses to adjust to, and he can't help but let some impatience leak into his voice.

McGonagall exchanges a look with the matron before clearing her throat, “Yes, Mr. Potter, we believe there is something wrong. While reviewing your full body scan results in order to make sure she delivered the correct dosages of your potions, Poppy—that is, Madame Pomfrey noticed that your weight, muscle tone and bone density are all consistent with chronic malnutrition.” This seems hard for the professor to say, which only serves to confuse Harry more.

Pomfrey looks shaken as well and is quick to jump in, “Before we go further, I want to apologize for my complete oversight on your care. It is standard procedure to perform a full check-up on incoming students, but your medical record from before Hogwarts appeared spotless and I treat you so regularly that I just assumed you would bring up any issues—not that I'm saying this is your fault, of course not, I just-I didn't think to-I'm sorry.” As she speaks she gets more and more upset and he is determined to put this to rest before she apologizes more or, Merlin forbid, cries.

“It’s alright, really, you don't have to apologize. I'm fine: a couple potions and I'll be right as rain, yeah?” He offers in the hopes of calming them both down. Really, why she decided to bring McGonagall in for him being a bit skinny he’ll never understand. Since today is Shit on Harry Day though, this naturally has the opposite effect, and to his horror tears start falling on the matron’s ruddy cheeks, face still red and blotchy from frantic work over potions.

Professor McGonagall puts her arm comfortingly around the shorter woman's waist before responding, “I'm afraid it will not be that simple. From these findings, the only reasonable conclusion is that the Dursleys have been severely neglecting you. Now I know it may seem harsh to associate the word with the people who raised you, but—”

Harry can't help but snort, missing the shock it brings them, “They hardly raised me. But yeah, neglect, ignoring, hating, whatever word you can think of it probably fits. Does this have something to do with the seizure?” At least now when he looks at his teachers’ faces he can see his own confusion reflected back at him.

McGonagall clears her throat. She seems to be doing that a lot, talking to him today. “Not necessarily. Though I’m sure Madame Pomfrey can attest that… _undue stress_ can trigger fits or an increase in symptoms.” She talks gently, tip-toeing around the issue at hand. This is something people do a lot with him, especially adults; they never want to say something “too stressful”, as if his life hasn’t been one life-threatening situation after the other. This is one of the least stressful things he’s talked about this _week_. Another clearing of her throat, and this time her voice is much more noticeably cautious, “Would abusive, would that word ‘fit’ your relatives’... behavior, towards you?”

He rubs the back of his head with his sore arm, thinking honestly. “I wouldn’t use it myself, Professor, I know other kids go through worse. Honestly, I think they didn’t care enough about me to abuse me. Uncle Vernon got a little rough a couple times, pushing me or choking me, and Aunt Petunia didn’t always miss when throwing things, but it never went further than that, no beatings or nothing. If I wasn’t being yelled at or told to clean something, I was probably being ignored.” Harry finishes with a shrug. Some part of him knows that what he’s talking about should be, is, upsetting, but he can’t find any anger or sadness to go with the topic. He’s just tired.

By this time Pomfrey has composed herself, and with the evidence of her examinations and this line of questioning, she knows what conclusion must be made. “What you've described _is_ abuse, Mr. Potter, of the emotional, physical and psychological kinds, as well as neglect in a most severe form. I want to apologize, again, on behalf of me and every other staff member at this school for our failure to act. Had we known that any of this had been taking place, we would have removed you immediately; now that we do, I can assure you you will not be returning there.”

He is instantly snapped out of his confusion, panicking, “No! I have to go back this summer, every summer, at least for a week-or, or two.” The two women in front of him immediately go to object, and he, misreading their concerns rushes to reassure them, “Look, I-I know that what the Dursley’s do is wrong, I _know_ they’re bad people, and it’s not like I want to go back. But I have to, to maintain the blood wards.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrow and snap sharply to his. “Whoever told you about such a rare and ancient magic had enough knowledge about that and your position to know they should not have put this responsibility on your shoulders. Regardless, you will be well protected wherever you stay as we investigate and decide on your permanent residence and guardianship.” Harry is still sputtering, trying to prevent the inevitable with all the strength in his teenage body.

“A-ask Dumbledore! Headmaster Dumbledore, he said it, he knows what’s going on, ask him!” he pleads.

Like a wolf catching scent of the hunt the Deputy Headmistress’ teeth bare, “I fully intend to.”

\--

The twins sit back from the wall, George letting his Extendable Ear, now mangled from his white-knuckled grip, fall to the floor. He’s pale and shaking, his twin as always his mirror image, but he also sees his grim determination reflected back in Fred’s eyes.

“Let us make sure the adults don’t completely bollocks this up.” Fred says; if he put any more intent in his vow, it would be Unbreakable.

George nods his head before pulling out his wand to cast one of the locating spells they’d learnt from their time with the Marauder’s Map, “Starting with notifying his illegal legal guardian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm i'm not 100% satisfied with this chapter but i needed to keep that good good luna and harry content i love luna. this is the slowest plot progression i've ever had in a fic so this might actually be a longer one (by my standards lmao if u seen my other fics you know thats not very long). coming up is dumbledore gets interrogated and remus and sirius plot to break harry out, while ron hermione and ginny start building Their Case  
> as always, comments cure my depression


	3. Securidaca longipedunculata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for flashback of child abuse, implied racism

Remus steps through the floo, expecting one of Sirius’ over-enthusiastic hugs; complete with puppy kisses, reminding him painfully of younger years, of tender moments rushed in shared dormitories, and later of desperate connections under nightmare-soaked sheets.

This is not, of course, what greets him: indeed, Sirius can barely be seen at all, cornered as he is by who must be the Weasley twins, though they look considerably more serious than they've ever been described to him.

“-it was like he thought it was  _ normal! _ ” He catches the one on the left saying, quickly followed by his brother,

“He definitely knows what they're doing is  _ wrong _ , but he thinks he has to put up with it or, or he’ll lose the blood magic his mom left to protect him.” The mention of blood magic sends a chill through both adult's spines, for Remus turning his curiosity of what could cause the teens such distress to a need to know who they're talking about.

His need is fulfilled shortly, Sirius removing the hand covering his mouth to speak, looking particularly nauseous, “Did someone  _ tell _ Harry that he has to stay there?” Remus can't contain his gasp, and Sirius spins around to face him. After a moment, guilt and sadness and anger passing through their eyes, Sirius closes the distance between them and pulls him into a rough hug.

The twins share a look, unsure, before George speaks up: “He said that… Dumbledore knows.”

A growl reverberates in their embrace, neither Sirius nor Remus entirely sure which of them it originates from. Remus breaks their embrace, stepping farther into the small room.

“Thank you, both, for bringing this to us. I swear I'll do- _ we'll  _ do everything we can to keep Harry safe.” He addresses the twins.

George and Fred look to each other, for once carefully considering what they're going to say. Fred is the one to speak up, “All do respect, Professor, but entrusting Harry’s safety to adults is what got him in this situation in the first place. So if you're asking us to leave this alone, you'll be disappointed”. This position is at odds with their hero-worship of the two Marauders in front of them, but learning of Dumbledore's possible involvement in Harry's abuse has given both boys a healthy cynicism towards any figures charged with his care.

Remus offers them a strained smile, “I would expect nothing less,” his face drops into the serious look more natural to him in the moment, “and I would never ask you to discontinue your guerilla efforts to help him. Quite the opposite: it is clear that us adults have become… blinded, to our faults and the faults of those we put our trust in.”

He can see the boys opening their mouths again, but Sirius speaks first, predicting their objections and beating them to it, “And yes, that includes Dumbledore. I swear on my magic that nothing short of death, not even the Headmaster’s influence, will keep me from protecting Harry.” Everyone in the room is taken aback by his words as, sure enough, a silvery-blue magic circles around him, signifying his Unbreakable Vow. In another time, Remus would have laughed and cajoled Sirius for taking such a dramatic step, here and now his magic yearns to do the same.

Fred and George stare at them with wide eyes, that remaining hero-worship now at the forefront of their minds. Thinking to themselves for a moment, they clear their throats and speak; “We solemnly swear that we are up to no good.”, and though no true vow is made, the faint tingle of magic can be felt in the air. It's Remus and Sirius’ turns to be flabbergasted, and the twins can't help but to flash cheeky grins; Fred bows comically low and George gives a lopsided curtsey as they leave.

“Are we sure those are Weasley’s kids?” Sirius asks after a moment, still staring at the door they left through, his voice distant as if in shock. “They seem a little…”

“... Like Marauders?” Remus finishes with a smile, “They nicked the map from Filch’s office in their first year, before giving it to Harry in their fourth. Merlin knows what they'd created to find they no longer needed it.”

The mention of his godson snaps Sirius out of his reverie, and he turns to Remus determinedly, “What are we going to do about him? I still can't believe Dumbledore would leave him with  _ Tuney _ , that sanctimonious bitch.” His teeth are bared in an uncannily canine show of aggression, and Remus wonders not for the first time how those months on the run in his animagus form have changed his mind. Just the thought of spending that long as the wolf…

“I don't know how much we  _ can _ do,” he puts up a hand as Sirius’s hackles raise, “that does not mean we'll do  _ nothing _ . Honestly, Sirius; do you forget who broke you out of Black Manor?” His… friend is sufficiently cowed at this, so Remus continues, sitting heavily in one of the plush chairs as Sirius starts to pace, “But we do have to face that, as things stand, neither of us would be given legal custody of Harry. If we could somehow expedite the reopening of your case, maybe…” He trails off upon noticing that Sirius is stopped, standing in front of him with a look of confusion and growing suspicion. “What?” Remus asks rather gruffly; this last full moon had not been kind on him, and his patience and pain tolerance have been worn thin even without all he's just learned.

Sirius just cocks his head at him, brows furrowed, “Why weren't you given custody?”

Remus barks out a laugh, the sound grating and foreign, “Now is hardly the time for jokes.” His irritation only grows as Sirius doesn't respond, just giving him the same questioning look, the strength of it making him shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Do you really think they'd let someone with my… furry little problem, take care of the Boy Who Lived?” He settles on, forcing a scoff yet unable to make eye contact with the man across from him.

The man who proceeds to laugh, genuinely and full and just a touch manic, for all of a few seconds before recognizing his anger and speaking, “Remus, do you really think James and Lily wouldn't have accounted for that?” This time it is Remus’s turn to stare blankly, confusion and doubt warring with his abating anger.

“Wh-what do you mean?” He asks breathlessly.

Sirius steps closer to him, his light eyes much too expressive of his sympathy and grief as he grabs Remus’s hands from where they were kneading his trousers. “ _ Remus _ ; they put you in the will, furry bits and all. Hell, I think Lily wanted to put you before me in the line of succession, but James’s logic was that you'd be taking care of us both regardless.” He breaks a bittersweet smile at that, and Remus would be lying if he said it didn't cause some tears to well.

“Even with that being the case,” Remus says, his voice suspiciously wet, “a will was never recovered. Or at least, that's what the headmaster told me, which now throws it under some question.”

Sirius drops Remus’s hands, seemingly only just realizing they were still held, and straightens. “So we're hunting a will. If I were a will, where would I hide?”

\--

_ Tears stream down his face as Petunia rips a comb through his densely coiled hair, biting back a yelp when the comb gets stuck and Petunia keeps pulling anyway. She scoffs, a disgusted sound, and lets go of the comb. _

_ “Stay still, freak.” and he is still as she walks away, comes back with something that makes an awful buzzing sound and then with metal teeth biting at his scalp his hair falls to the floor in matted clumps. _

_ He wakes up in the cupboard, stomach so empty it's sore, no dinner for not having “straight hair like a  _ normal _ person”.  _

_ Waking up means it's time to make breakfast, maybe if I make too much I'll get scraps. Smell of bacon sizzling on the stove and then there's a meaty fist wound tight in his hair, shouldn't his hair be patchy and short why are there still curls for him to grab onto- _

_ “You ungrateful little freak! Tuney gives you a haircut and you use your… freakishness!” he's being pulled, he's always being pulled one direction or another, he knows he can't speak but all he wants to say is I don't know I don't know how my hair grew back I didn't do anything please Uncle- _

_ Uncle kicks open his cupboard door and lifts him by his freakish hair, it feels like his scalp is being ripped off his head, and then his body is flung into the cupboard, head making painful contact with the bars of his cot. _

_ “What can you expect from a mutt, right?” Petunia sneers, and their laughter fills his cupboard, his world, swirling around him fast enough to suffocate _

He wakes on a gasp, arms already protectively reaching to cover his head and ribs. Being accustomed to them, Harry is normally able to shake off nightmares quickly, and while the fear and confused guilt pass over him like the last wave of the receding tide, the pain in his head remains. But if life has taught him anything, it’s how to put on a smile and work through the pain.

“Oh, Harry! Madame Pomfrey said we shouldn’t expect you up for another hour; how’re you feeling?” Opening his eyes, all he sees is a blur by his bed, but with the voice and big hair he knows it’s Hermione, and probability dictates that Ron is somewhere nearby. His headache is only made worse by trying to focus on them so he Accio’s his glasses with closed eyes, only opening them once the temples are firmly behind his ears. Still blurry, but better.

“I'm doing fine ‘Mione; honestly I'm just bored.” He cracks what he hopes is a reassuring grin as pain continues to radiate from his forehead. 

He can't tell from their expressions, but the concern in Ron's voice even as he tries to cheer him up says his grimace was anything but, “... Okay then, mate, we can fix that; I've brought Exploding Snaps!” As Ron ruffles through his robes, this time Harry can't restrain his grimace, knowing the loud game will only aggravate his headache.

Hermione notices, “Are you sure you're alright? I'm sure Madame Pomfrey’s just in her office…” Ron stops going through his pockets and looks at him, the message clear: this had scared them, more than the other times he'd ended up here; more than bruises and scrapes, the broken arm and broken leg and exhaustion,  _ so much exhaustion _ . This scared them because there's no easy fix, no dark wizard they can defeat and make it all better.

“I really am fine, Hermione,” he sighs, leaning back into the pillows, “I've just woken up with a bit of a headache, that's all.”

Far from reassuring her, he only causes her frown to deepen as his two friends both paint themselves the picture of worry; if Harry admits to it, it must be bad.

“Could it be, ya know… your  _ scar? _ ” Ron asks, the last word only a whisper. Over the years, he's learned just how uncomfortable his friend gets at any mention of the lightning-strike scar cascading over his forehead.

Harry is grateful for the over-dramatic attempt to spare his feelings, but if he wasn't sure they'd take it as a sign he'd finally gone mental he'd laugh at how awkward his friends are whenever they think they've offended him, “D’you think I wouldn't tell you if ol’ Voldy was planning his entrance? Actually,” he redirects, seeing the knowing smirk grow on Hermione's face, “don't answer that; I'm not going to get verbally ripped to shreds on my deathbed. ‘sides, it's… Gone now.” He'd been meaning to tell them, yet again, that it wasn't that bad, but it seems as suddenly as it came on, it ceased. At the disbelieving looks both of his friends send him, he scoffs, “Come on, I'm telling the truth! Here, I'll prove it to you: two-on-one Exploding Snaps, if I lose I'll… Eat one of Hagrid’s rock cakes!”

Hermione still looks a little unsure, but Ron jumps at the challenge, pulling up a chair and looking through his pockets with renewed fervour; “And if you win?”

“If he wins,  _ you'll _ do his summer homework.” Hermione says dryly, resignedly pulling up a chair of her own.

Harry grins, ignoring the subtle metal taste in his mouth; “No thanks, Hermione: I'd rather not start the year with N’s.” They both snicker, with Ron looking between them unsure whether he should be offended.

They're halfway through the game when a heavy feeling descends over Harry's head. He tries to brush it off as the stress of the day (two days? How long has he been in this bed?) making him tired, but as he tries to throw his piece he accidentally lets go, effectively ruining his turn.

Because his friends don't know how to mind their own business, they both notice, and Ron speaks up; “Ya know… you can try again, Harry; one of those mull-ee-gans or whatever.” He offers a weak smile, and Harry wants to return it and laugh at his unfamiliarity with the muggle term. He wants, but his face isn't responding, and he can see his own confusion and concern reflected back in their eyes.

“I… seizure, I fink?” He manages to force through his unwilling lips before all awareness leaves him.

\--

“Licorice ropes.” A candy’s name has never been spat with such contempt as McGonagall saying the password for the Headmaster’s office. As the staircase unwinds, Pomfrey puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Minnie; take a deep breath.” She mimes the action herself, but McGonagall shrugs it off with a huff.

“If you mean to tell me to calm down… Merlin, Poppy, how are you not furious!” Her brogue only gets thicker with her anger. Pomfrey places both hands on her shoulders and stops her on the stairs.

Pressing their faces together until their foreheads meet, Poppy speaks in a harsh whisper, “If you think I am not resisting every urge to tear Albus limb from limb for leaving Harry with those bastards then you don’t know me at all.” McGonagall's eyes close as some of her rage turns to embarrassment and regret at her behavior. Seeing this, Poppy presses a kiss to the taller woman’s nose, “Minerva. We are going to do  _ everything _ possible for Harry, regardless of what Albus says. But it will be easier with his cooperation, and you know responds better to decorum than outrage, however justified.” Taking a few deep breaths, Minerva nods, and together they turn to the Headmaster’s door.

“Ah! Minerva, Poppy; to what do I owe the pleasure?” Dumbledore is sat at his desk, three charmed quills filling out seperate stacks of paperwork, his eyes tracked on a pendulum spinning erratically.

Poppy can’t contain a snort, but schools her expression as one of the quills quivers. “If only the reason for our visit was pleasurable, Albus. As part of Mr. Potter’s treatment,” he looks up at the mention of his cherished student's name, and Poppy swallows the bitterness that their presence alone didn't dain his full attention, “I performed a full-body scan and found signs of chronic malnutrition, as well as record of numerous soft-tissue injuries. I am also no oculist, but the strain on the muscles of his eyes alone indicates the prescription of his eyeglasses is horribly ill-matched, and probably never has been.” The headmaster’s expression had grown suitably grave as she spoke, but if she looks closely she can still see a twinkle in his eye.

He nods and removes his spectacles, the quills still writing, “And what was Harry's explanation for these… discoveries?”

A growl escapes McGonagall’s throat; “You know as well as I do the  _ explanation _ , Albus.” Pomfrey puts a hand on her lover's shoulder yet again, but internally she's impressed the Deputy Headmistress only let a little malice into her voice. 

With a shared look to Minerva, she continues; “As is protocol, I, and Minerva, as his head of house, brought these findings to him, and he confirmed it was the result of his relatives’ maltreatment, though he hesitated to label it abuse.” Dumbledore at this point looks honestly saddened, and Pomfrey prays that sympathy can be coaxed into meaningful action.

Before he can respond, McGonagall speaks; “To our surprise, however, he was under the impression that, regardless of home life, he must remain on Privet Drive as a matter of utmost importance to maintain the  _ blood wards _ ; an explanation, he says, that  _ you _ delivered to him.” Albus shifts in his seat, minorly enough that those unfamiliar with him may hardly notice. “He must be mistaken, of course; as you would never put such pressure on the shoulders of a  _ boy _ expressing concerns about his home life.” Her bitter sarcasm is without humor, all of them aware of the   truth; despite what  _ The Prophet _ may print, Harry Potter is anything but a liar.

Albus sighs, a world-weary thing, and says “It is true, that young Harry and I had a conversation near the close of first year where I explained why he couldn't remain at Hogwarts for the summer holidays. Though this is no excuse, I did not suspect any physical mistreatment, as he merely stated his relatives’ dislike of him.”

“You are certainly right that that is no excuse,” Minerva growls, and this time Pomfrey does nothing to curb her fury; “regardless of your personal  _ investment _ in the student, you are required to report  _ any _ case where a student fears returning home! If not to the ministry, then at least to your  _ staff _ , for Godric’s sake!” She spits, hands thrown up in disbelief.

He bows his head, “And that is my guilt to bare. However, it is the truth that Harry is a special case, and the blood wards are the best protection for the boy.” Clearly, he has not been cowed enough.

Minerva emits a cry, to angry to speak. As she begins to pace, Pomfrey takes a step towards the desk Albus hides behind, and when she speaks her voice is low but clear; “Sometimes I swear you’re as bad as the blood purists. Of  _ course _ there are other protections for him! We survived the whole  _ war _ without blood wards! I appreciate that you wanted to utilize Lily’s dying act, but she’d much rather he stayed in a home where he was  _ loved _ than one where he  _ might _ be safer.”

Albus opens his mouth but before he can defend himself, Minerva spits out: “I told you that day that he shouldn’t have been with them! You knew that Petunia resented her, you  _ knew _ , we both knew!” There are tears in her eyes once she’s finished, and Pomfrey doesn’t hesitate to grab her hand, her tears freely falling.

Dumbledore, for his part, looks… Confused, and guilty, as if he is only just realizing the impact his decision has had on Harry. “I… believe there is much for us to discuss, then.”

Minerva sniffs, “On that, you're right. But it is not just us who need to be discussing it.” And she conjures her patronus, whispering: “Find Sirius and Remus.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes,,,, its been a while  
> i started university in september and i didn't realize how much worse my health has gotten over the past two-ish years; i have three hours of class a day, with hour breaks in between, and yet I go home exhausted, unable to move from bed, and every time i walk to my bus stop i'm constantly fighting the urge to just lay down and give up because of how much pain i'm in, and I've gone to five doctors appointments in this past month trying to get them to take me seriously, to no avail  
> which is all to say: sorry bout not updating lmao. i can't promise regular updates but i think im gonna be able to a bit quicker than this last gap. what's next: the hunt for the potters' will continues, I blatantly steal an idea from the fic Never Piss Off a Parental Werewolf, and Harry is confused as to why people suddenly Cares  
> as always, comment cure my depression.


	4. Aconitum variegatum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for internal victim blaming

“So when do we get to bring him home?”

Dumbledore's eyebrows raise, the only sign of his immense surprise at not just the tone of the question, but who asked it. “Remus, my boy; you must know it is not as simple as—”

“No!” The young man interrupts, holding onto his anger so he doesn't have to feel the deeper betrayal, “ _ You _ told me he was safe. You  _ lied _ . Now is your time to answer questions, honestly, not hide your intentions in bureaucracy.”

Sirius has to hold back his pride (and something softer, near-forgotten that he pushes down before it can distract him) at Remus’s righteous anger, instead using it to temper his own rage at the man before him, someone who used to hold his absolute trust, whose eccentricities used to be endearing but now only set him further on edge. How could he still wear those garish robes and smile that smile  _ knowing _ what had happened to Harry, right under his nose—

Dumbledore clears his throat and swallows, the beading in his beard bobbing as he speaks, “Your anger is expected, and deserved. Please, sit, and we can discuss it further.”

Neither of them move. Remus takes a vindictive sort of pleasure at how clearly that takes the old man off-guard, though he doesn't revel in it for long before Sirius breaks the silence, “ _ Why? _ Why did you leave him with them? Why didn't you vouch for  _ me? _ You could have demanded a trial, defended my innocence,  _ anything _ , and I wouldn't—” his voice breaks, wet with unshed tears, “ _ he _ wouldn't have been alone in that house. He could have been  _ safe _ , with his godfathers, like they wanted!” He's crying openly now, not heaving sobs but quiet, free-flowing tears, and Remus wants nothing more than to hold him, let the wolf take over and watch anyone  _ dare _ to hurt him again. As it is, he settles for an arm around the shorter man's shoulder, letting Sirius feel his shared grief through a small pulse of magic.

“Because he thought blood wards were enough reason to put a child with magic-hating muggles,” Poppy answers in his place, “and because all of us were too blinded with grief to question him. Or your conviction. Rest assured, Mr. Black, that that is no longer the case.” she says pointedly, thinking of the vials she already has stored with memories of discovering Sirius’ innocence.

Minerva follows her partner, “Very true. First we must ascertain the status of the Potter will, so that whoever we place Harry with will have a claim to his guardianship; Albus, I trust you ken where it is.”

Far from his normally composed self, the man in question is gaping not unlike a dying fish, mind on overdrive trying to calculate some way to gain control of the situation. Before he can do more than that, Remus adds information of his own: “He had informed us that a will was never recovered…” There is a low growl behind his words, the tall man somehow capable of looming over the Headmaster while being a fair distance away.

Clearing his throat again, Dumbledore speaks, “Ah… I believe I was not, entirely, truthful in that,” the growl grows louder, and the elder wizard pales when no move is made to quiet him, “there was a will found on the premises, but I—Sirius, you have to believe I thought you had betrayed them, killed Peter—when I saw you named as Godfather, I destroyed the will.” He fights to be heard over the uproar that consumes his office, “All I-All I knew was a man who had sold out the Potters to the Dark Lord had guardianship over the boy who killed him. But-But, I believe there was more than one copy made.” The talking and growling that had built up are quieted all at once, and, not for the first time, Albus is left with a room full of people staring at him, angrily waiting for him to give one reason not to curse him into an oblivion. Oh, what a shame that he could not do even that, “Though, most unfortunately, I do not know where it was stored.”

“Are you aware of anyone who  _ does _ know?” Never once had Poppy worn a look more murderous. In fact, none of them had, but she was the only one doing it with a smile.

“Ah, I do believe… Severus, may know. Lily was adamant about ‘making him useful’.”

Sirius sniffs, wiping at his nose angrily. “Never thought there’d be a day I was more lookin’ forward to talking with that slimy git than with you. Huh.” And with one final look at him—the man he could have called a grandfather; the man who consigned him to twelve years a prisoner, two years an outlaw, and consigned his godson to a lifetime of second-guessing, of second-glances whenever a voice is raised—he nods and walks out the door. Remus, torn between following or tearing flesh, shoots a warning look, centuries too old and betrayed, and hurries after him.

“So that leaves us to our, or shall I say your, remaining duty: prove Sirius Black innocent.” Minerva says, as surely as taking house points. Sensing the insurmountable excuses Albus was about to sputter out, she doubles down, “You are the Head of the Wizengamot, not to mention one of the most powerful wizards of your age. Somehow, I doubt swaying a vote is beyond your limits.” The knowing tone she takes almost has him scrambling for his Occlumency shields, certain she can see into his very soul. But knowing Minerva, he simply sighs and agrees; as much as he'd thought she was under his influence, he knows she has no need of magic to tear him apart.

\--

If Pomfrey doesn't let him out of the hospital wing, he's going to stage a revolt; surely Dobby can sway most of the house elves to his cause. Considering the near-unimaginable amount of work he's had to do to not-die this year, Harry's surprised that bed rest doesn't feel like, well, rest. Maybe surprised isn’t true; even if he’s been asleep for most of it, this two day hospital wing stay is the most down-time he’s had in… Years. He doesn’t know what to  _ do _ with nothing needing to be done, without school work or defense practice or chores and chores and chores. Classes are finished and yet he’s not packing, not figuring out all the ways to hide his new clothes or money, filling the hidden compartment in his trunk with food to be stashed under the floorboards before his school supplies are inevitably locked up, not convincing Hedwig (unsuccessfully) to stay at the Burrow for the summer. Instead he’s just… here, laying in a bed much less comfortable than the dorm’s and yet infinitely more comfortable than his cot at the Dursleys’.

And that’s another thing: he’s been thinking about the Dursleys. That’s not really unusual; the end of term normally spells hours spent angry about being forced to return, but normally he can put those feelings into action, let his frustrations take the back burner while he prepares for the inevitable. Now all Harry has is his thoughts, the petulant voice in his head saying  _ it’s not fair, it’s not right, why do I have to go back _ , and the longer he’s left with it the more he’s forced to consider it. Sure, he’s not the only student going home to an angry family (though family seems to generous a word, certainly not a word they’d use to describe  _ him _ ), but for once in his life Harry has other people he could stay with. If it’s alright for him to be outside the blood wards at Hogwarts, then why couldn’t he be protected in a place where people didn’t actively hate him?

He feels bad for even thinking it. He’s just whinging for no reason; it’s not like the Dursleys are that bad, and he’s sure to be invited to the Burrow for most of the summer anyways, especially with this whole ‘seizure’ development he doesn’t even want to  _ start  _ thinking about. But that thought only makes the little voice grow louder,  _ it’s not safe, if I have a seizure there I could d _ —

“Pup, are you awake?”

“Sirius! Remus?” Thrilled at the silence being broken, Harry rushes to fill it, “What are you doing here? Are you gonna be around all summer? When can you break me out of here?” He shimmies in the standard hospital bed for emphasis, so happy at the mere prospect of action.

Sirius seems to physically reign himself in at this last question, concern coloring his features instead of the expected enthusiasm, “I don’t know, Pup, I think we should listen to—”

“We’ll get you out of here in a jiff,” Remus cuts in, all smiles to Sirius’ frown. He understands in a way Sirius doesn’t, the monotony of the hospital wing and the pressing weight of everyone’s pity when all you want is to get back to normal. To show he means it, he transfigures Harry's hospital pajamas into muggle street ware, then takes a seat by his bed, “but before we leave, we just want to explain what's been going on on our end, and get your opinions on the next steps.”

Being kept up-to-date on anything is so surprising that Harry almost can't believe it. But it’s Remus, and Sirius, so of course he trusts it, and he settles back down in the covers, looking to both of them with an eagerness he hasn’t been able to feel since his name came out of the goblet. 

Sirius clears his throat, and some of his concern seeps away, replaced with hope for what's to come. “First, Harry, I’m going to ask you again what I asked you last year: how would you like to come live with me?” he and Remus can’t help but laugh at how Harry’s eyes blow wide, his mouth dropping open instantly.

“Seriously?” Both men nod, not holding back their smiles, “And you? Remus?” Another nod and suddenly their arms are full of overjoyed teenager. Sirius hugs him back instantly, and though Remus is shocked at first he too joins in. All of them seem to linger, no one wanting to break away from what, for all of them, is a rare moment of human contact.

But Remus eventually steps back, “It’ll be me as your legal guardian, as it’s going to take a while now for Sirius to be cleared,” the wolf holds his breath for a sign of disappointment that never comes, and he can’t help the smile that stretches across his face, “but we’ve already sent for a copy of your parents’ will by owl, so it should go through by tomorrow.”

His smile is mirrored in Harry’s face, though it falls moments later as Harry processes. “Wait,” he pushes back from the abandoned embrace as well, physically distancing himself from them, “if it’s that easy… If you’re my guardian, why didn’t you raise me?” Before he can answer, he’s asked an even more heartbreaking question, “Why didn’t you ever come?”

“Oh,  _ cub _ ,” Remus melts, warring with the urge to swarm him with a hug and the fear that it wouldn’t be welcome, “up until now I didn’t  _ know _ I was your guardian; we’ve only just… discovered the will, and the Ministry wouldn’t give custody to a, a werewolf without that proof. Believe me, Harry, I  _ tried _ . Not being with you all these years was the hardest thing in the world.” Tears fall freely from his eyes, and a quick glance at Sirius shows he’s in the same way.

Harry scoffs, mumbles, “I can think of worse.” He means it as a joke (does he?), something to lighten the mood if they even hear it. He doesn’t expect them both to look at him sharply, Remus still just on the embarrassing side of warm, but Sirius with something hard in his eyes.

“We also… We know what the Dursleys did; Merlin, we’re so sorry pup.” And now Sirius has got that emotional… squish to him too. Harry’s not completely inept with emotions, as given the nature of Hogwarts he’s learned how to calm anything from my-boyfriend-just-broke-up-with-me to my-friend-was-petrified-and-I’m-afraid-I’m-next breakdowns. But when it’s his own life, it’s hard to see what all the fuss is about.

He shrugs, “They hate me, I hate them: for the most part we stayed out of each other’s way. It’s fine, really,” Remus looks sadder and Sirius looks angry, so he’s clearly doing something wrong, “I mean yeah, they were well awful, and Dad bein’ black on top of a wizard didn’t help, but it really could’ve been worse. I never even took a proper beating.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, but it does nothing to cover the fury in his face, “And what makes a  _ proper _ beating then?” Harry shifts in the sheets again, uncomfortable with Sirius’ intensity. Remus sends him another sad smile, before putting a hand on Sirius’ shoulder.

“I know, you’re angry,” He murmurs into his raven hair, ignoring Sirius’ snort of protest, “but we can’t brute force him into understanding.” Again, the other man tries to protest, so Remus pulls him further away from Harry and speaks straight to his face, “It’s not the same as you, Siri. You had friends from the beginning telling you it was wrong; you  _ saw _ how others were treated differently. He didn’t have that. The Dursleys hated him for  _ what _ he is, not who, and there’s still some part of him that believes that’s right. All of the Boy-Who-Lived bollocks has only proved that he’s just as different as they always made him out to be.”

At this point Harry has given up trying to listen in on whatever they’re saying, trusting that it's just them trying to get their emotions under control. Remus is the only person who seems to know how to get Sirius out of his… moods. It’s like he gets trapped in the past, and Remus pulls him back to the present (Harry only saw it the once, in a brief moment before Pettigrew escaped. And yet somehow, he knows it’s true). Honestly, Harry doesn’t know much about any relationships, let alone queer ones, but he has a feeling that if this living with them thing works out, Sirius and Remus won’t be having separate rooms for long.

“How do you… did he talk with you? About them?” Sirius responds in a matching whisper, anger fading back into his confused jumble of emotions.

Remus shakes his head, “I doubt he’s talked with anyone about them. I never talked about my father. But I’m familiar with being made a monster.” He pushes past the look this garners, “This isn’t about me. Or you; it’s about him and how, soon enough, he won’t have to see them ever again.” They hold each other’s gaze before Sirius sniffs and nods.

“Great! So back to telling me what you know.” Harry says. As much as he's used to the routine of adults talking about him in front of him, and as much he cares about the two in front of him, this whole situation has his patience about as thin as the hospital wing sheets he’s been living in. 

That gets a small chuckle out of Remus, who lowers himself carefully into the chair beside him, “Poppy-er, Pomfrey gave us information on your treatment: you’ll be on the nutrient potions for another two weeks, and you’ll keep taking the combined seizure potion every morning with food.”

“So that’s it? I just take it every day, forever? And this doesn’t mean the seizures stop, does it? I’ll just depend on potions for the rest of my life and  _ hope _ that I don’t keel over while fighting a bloody Death Eater?” Harry can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed at how his voice raises and fries because suddenly he realizes that this is his forever, that every single day for the rest of his life he’ll have to worry about this; yet another fucking thing he has no control over.

Sirius and Remus are both desperate to say something, anything to comfort him, but it’s Remus who eventually finds the words, “I know that now, it seems like this will define your life. And I’m not going to lie; it will change a lot of it. It won’t be easy, and sometimes you’ll just want to scream and cry and tear your hair out, but unlike,” he pauses, trying not to let his thoughts stray too far to the past, “unlike all the other shit you’ve been through, you won’t be going through it alone. We’re with you, every step of the way.”

Instead of trying to put voice to all of the warring emotions rolling through his brain, Harry gives into a desire he’d suppressed for so long, only recently re-ignited by one Molly Weasley, and pulls Remus into a fierce hug. Unlike the loose embrace from before, this is a desperate clinging to comfort, to trust that someone is really helping him. Remus’ arms around him is  _ safe _ , a feeling so rare to be foreign to him, and he holds onto that as tight as he can.

Sirius clears his throat, and Harry can feel Remus start to pull back so he hugs him even tighter, eliciting a soft gasp from the man before his arms return to their positions around him. He knows he’s being childish and weak, but he’s tired and stressed and couldn’t care less what anyone has to say about it. Not bothering to lift his head from Remus’ shoulder, Harry says, “Get over here, Padfoot,” and his muffled request is met with another pair of arms embracing them both, the smell of wet dog, more comforting than he’s willing to admit, filling his nose.

Said wet dog soaks in the second hug like he’s never been touched a day in his life, almost immediately breaking the mood with a snort. Speaking in the space between the top of Harry’s head and Remus’ neck, “You and Moony can take your potions together. I can even charm cute little reminders—Ow! Pup! No hitting while hugging!”

“Ruining the moment,” he grumbles, which of course sends both of the man-children laughing.

\--

Since classes are over and break has officially started, he’ll be staying at the Burrow while the guardianship was filed (or, from the flushed faces whenever Remus talked about the ‘filing’, argued over in the court). So for now life was just… normal. Or as close to normal as it could be, and Harry pushed through the bone-deep tiredness to make the most of this time with the Weasleys. 

Ginny is still a bit unsure around him, no doubt a remnant of her childhood crush, but after they thoroughly beat Fred and George in a game of two-on-two Quidditch she finally relaxes, letting her rowdiness shine through. Honestly, she’s the most rough-and-tumble Weasley in Harry’s mind, even giving Bill a run for his money. The twins are paying more attention to him than they usually do, letting him in on small pranks, defending him to Molly when she tries to pile more food on his plate; though don’t think he hasn’t noticed the influx of ‘dud’ prototype Wheezes he’s been given, while Ron’s seem to work just fine. Honestly, he thinks they’ve just been giving him candies, trying to be less obtrusive in their fattening him up. He can’t bring himself to be mad about it.

On his second day in the Burrow, Molly puts them to work. Cleaning, gardening, it’s second nature to Harry, and gardening in particular is a chore he actually enjoys; something about putting good into the earth, helping things grow. That doesn’t mean he can convince Mrs. Weasley of that, though the discomfort clear on his face when she initially left him out of the chore assignments was enough for her to let him help the twins with weeding.

Their techniques are certainly… different, not just from the muggle way Harry had learned to garden, but really from any method Harry could have thought of as reasonable. Then again, having thought that the twins would do anything reasonably was his first mistake. As he pulls weeds with a flick of his wand and a bit of intent, Fred and George take turns launching them into the air for the other to try and shoot down, with the technical goal being to hit them into the wheelbarrow, but the practical application of sending soil and plant matter flying everywhere.

“Come on, Harry! Our little seeker needs to get in some training!” Fred calls to him when one of his targets lands a few meters away from Harry. He smiles, ready to throw back a quip about how good of practice dodging their mum’s hexes will be, but before he can he’s hit with a stabbing pain, falling to his knees. His forehead is alight with it, quickly spreading down to his temples and neck, and he can’t contain a small cry as it only intensifies.

There are rushing sounds, feet on dirt, coming closer to him, but he can’t bare to open his eyes. One of the twins is in front of him, without looking he can’t tell who it is that speaks up, “Harry? Harry!” a touch to his shoulder and he cries out again, the sensation instantly feeding the pain, “ Fred, get Mum. Now!” He chances cracking open one eye and sees George knelt in front of him, Fred running into the house. 

The pain eases for a moment, just enough for his mind to clear and some of the things Pomfrey told him about his epilepsy to come to mind, “Seizure. Could be… Aura. Bigger fit.” Harry gasps out, the pain continuing to ease, but taking his focus with it. The last thing he’s aware of is George trying to lay down, before his mind goes blank and his body does it for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent a not insignificant portion of this chapter trying to find a synonym for “wiggles” cause i Refused to write it but thats what harry was doin in the hospital wing bed. The excited and uncomfy wiggles
> 
> lmao and Here We Are, i wanna say that a month between updates isn't becoming the regular but it might be, at least now things might start picking up cause i can focus more on harry as opposed to all the adults in his life frantically trying to fix their (cough cough dumbledore's) mistakes. 
> 
> in a health update for those i may have accidentally cOncerned w my last author's note, i've been unofficially diagnosed with hypermobile ehlers danlos syndrome (trying to get a referral for a geneticist, isn't the health care system fun?) and i'm on winter break so my joints are getting a little rest, hopefully once i'm officially diagnosed i can talk w my family and university abt how to not wreck my body every quarter  
> as always comments cure my depression


	5. Tanacetum parthenium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mild discussion of abuse and minimization of abuse

“Severus Snape! If you do not open this door this  _ instant  _ I will blast it open!”  _ with pleasure _ , Minerva adds mentally as she waits at the entrance to his chambers. Unlike most of the staff, Snape stays for a full month after term has ended, making sure his stores are fully stocked for the next year, and that any more delicate ingredients are safely in his home. She only knows this as he discusses it at length, his apparent Slytherin subtlety foregone as he emphasizes the sacrifices  _ he _ makes for his post. Honestly, his ability to make her miss Horace Slughorn is most impressive.

A long series of clicking locks that she can't help but roll her eyes at signals he's finally deigned to see her, and moments later the door is thrown open with his typical dramatic flare. “Minerva,” he scowls, “to what do I owe the…  _ pleasure _ .”

Two can play at that game; it would do Severus good to remember who taught him. “It concerns Mr. Potter,” she tempers her anger at the sneer the name of a  _ child _ illicits from Snape, “and for presumably the first time in your life, I am asking you to put aside your childhood grudges and behave as an adult.” At this, the gaunt man looks sufficiently cowed. If he'd paid more attention as her student, he would know the occasional well-placed rebuke to be infinitely more effective than constant belittling. Still, she doesn't linger on her victory; there are more important things than stroking the ego, as he would also do well to remember.

He clears his throat, trying to reestablish his uncaring air, “What do you need of me?”

As always, she is straightforward: “Access to Lily Potter's will.” Severus is clearly taken aback; no doubt whatever knowledge Lily afforded him was of the utmost secrecy, but given the circumstances, Minerva hardly thinks she'll mind.

Snape’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, “What need would Mr. Potter have of this?”

“Finally taking interest in a student's well-being?” But Severus’ neglects as a professor aren't what is (currently) in question, “Though it is none of your concern, it has… become necessary for a change of the boy's guardianship, and the legal chain of custody needs to be established, lest a distant blood connection such as the Malfoys puts forth a claim.”

It is almost painfully visible that he is restraining some snide comment on what Potter had done to earn the ire of his relatives, but even he can realize the dangers of the Boy Who Lived being adopted by a Death Eater. “Are we certain that removing Potter is the safest option?”

Now it is Minerva who cannot hold back a grimace, “An argument could be made that even Malfoy Manor would be safer than his current residence,” she allows herself some satisfaction at the young Professor's eyes going wide, “so I trust you will assist.” She leaves no question in her tone, but it hangs in the air regardless.

After a moment, and a put-upon sigh, he agrees, “I will retrieve it. Lily gave me access to a muggle trust vault she had set up as… Precaution.” She can sense his discomfort; whether it is a consequence of being helpful, or of showing any emotion other than smugness or anger, she could not say.

Her sharp nod serves as both approval and dismissal; “See that it is delivered to Professor Lupin.” She doesn't give him space to react beyond his shocked inhale, starting to walk away before turning on her heel and looking back to him.

“And Severus?” he looks up from whatever internal calculations he's running through to understand what is happening, “Thank you. This is what she would have wanted.”

—

Pomfrey only performs a few diagnostic charms before deciding he doesn't need to be readmitted. “Your body is adjusting to the medication still, but already your seizures have shortened, as has your post-ictal confusion. With continued potion use, these Grand Mal seizures will come very rarely, if at all. However, sensory seizures are still a possibility.” At Harry and the Weasleys’ looks of confusion, she elaborates, “Attacks would most commonly be a sensation of pain, or that of electricity, and they tend to be localized.”

Harry nods, perking up slightly; “So that’s what I felt when I was with Hermione and Ron; and then again today in the garden.” Now Harry is the one being met with confused looks. Sirius and Remus, who’d flooed over as soon as they’d heard (despite Harry and, surprisingly, Poppy’s insistence it wasn’t necessary), move closer to him almost subconsciously. He of course takes no notice of this, or the general air of concern around him, but he knows he should elaborate. 

Once he explains the headache he’d felt before the two seizures, emphasizing the difference from his normal scar-aches, Pomfrey agrees that it was actually the beginnings of his seizures

Satisfied that Harry and his carers understand, she changes direction; “The nutrient potion will  _ only _ be unnecessary after two weeks if you also maintain a proper diet; I have sent a list of recommendations to Molly Weasley and she seems more than prepared to provide, but I will still need to clear you myself when the time comes.” 

Harry can already see the piles of heavy meats and pies Mrs. Weasley will make and shudders at the thought of being ‘fattened up’ even more than she usually does. 

“Also,” she continues, sensing his distress, “I have brought a short supply of appetite stimulants, to make sure your stomach can handle it.” She then reaches into her supply bag and pulls out a stone pendant hanging on a gold chain, “In addition to your potions, I worked with Filius to create this.”

He accepts the necklace when she holds it out to him with not a small amount of confusion, “Uh… Thanks?”

Pomfrey huffs, and Remus and Sirius both have to restrain giggles. “It is a Bloodstone, charmed to monitor and record seizure activity, and in the event of a Grand Mal, it will produce a cushioning charm and contact your nearest guardian.” 

The complex spellwork is impressive to both Marauders, especially finished in such a short time-frame, and Harry now understands the purpose of the black and red stone in his hand, even if he bristles a bit at their over-protectiveness.

He pulls the two ends of the chain behind his neck and tries to clasp them together, fumbling with the delicate metal until Sirius leans over and does it up for him. As soon as the necklace settles around his neck, a wave of magic not unlike one of Pomfrey’s diagnostic spells washes over him. At his surprised look, she explains, “It scanned your baseline brain activity, as well as the past seizure activity so that it will know the difference between that and normal variation.”

Pomfrey then stands, smoothing down her robes. “And with that, I’ll be off. While I’m happy to visit, you don’t need me over here unless someone actually gets hurt.” Molly of course scoffs at that, and she and Pomfrey stand aside to talk, but Harry hops up from his seat, glad for it to be over. 

“So, how’s the whole… Custody, thing, going?” he asks, addressing his… future guardians. If all goes to plan. Which, considering the events of the past 14 years of his life, isn’t very likely, so he’s trying not to get his hopes up, but seeing the way the two men’s faces light up at his mention makes it hard not to hope. 

Remus is the first to respond, and while Sirius is wearing a wide grin, his expression is more tempered, “We actually wanted to tell you—a copy of your parents’ will has been found. This doesn’t mean it’s done, but it’s a really good step.” A smile breaks out on his face almost despite himself, and Harry echoes that smile.

“Is there going to be a court case?” He isn’t very familiar with the wizarding world’s judicial system; or really, with how any of the Ministry of Magic works, so he’s mostly using some of the crime procedurals he’s heard Aunt Petunia watching.

At that Remus sighs, giving a sort of half-shrug; “Yes and no. It is a legal proceeding, but all they’ll ask of us is a couple interviews, making sure it,” he stops, then Sirius’s hand sneaks into his, giving a squeeze, “making sure  _ we _ , are a good fit for you. Honestly, with the will found, the hard bit’s out of the way.”

But Harry’s thoughts stop at the mention of interviews, his eyes instantly scanning the layout of people in the room, calculating who can hear. Pomfrey is already stepping through the floo, Mrs. Weasley is moving over to her husband on the far side from him. They’re still in the center of the living room, near the couch he was examined on, so Harry starts to walk to the opposite side of the Weasleys, trying to keep it casual lest Sirius or Remus start to worry.

The two men follow without any fuss, though they look confused until he leans in to say, in a low voice: “Will they want to know about the Dursleys?” He hates the way their faces instantly fill with concern; he’s fine, honestly, he just doesn’t want Mrs. Weasley to hear and have even more excuse to smother him, or for his friends to learn and feel like they need to do the same. 

It’s different for Remus and Sirius to know, though. He knows both of them have been through enough that, at least on some level, they get it. They don’t pity, or push too hard (most of the time; lately Sirius has been slightly too insistent on saying he was abused), they just listen when he wants them to. 

Remus collects himself first, nodding in consideration; “They’ll probably ask about them, yes; the Ministry isn’t investigating the abuse directly, but they’ll need to know if your former guardians were… unfit.”

Harry snorts, “Putting it mildly there, aren’t we Moony?”

Remus responds, putting on an over-the-top posh accent: “Always, of course, always; we can't be offending our delicate Bambi.” Sirius prepares himself to diffuse an argument, but Harry and Remus’s serious faces quickly break into laughter.

“Alright you two,” he interrupts with a put-upon sigh, “I believe you both have potions to be taking…” Then Sirius stops, hitting his forehead, “Blimey, when did I become the adult? Remus, quick! Say something responsible!”

The wizard in question leans in closely and, in a manner similar to telling a ghost story, whispers loudly: “You have to reclaim ownership of the Black estates.”

“Knew I could count on you!” he replies cheerily, before throwing an arm around Harry's shoulder, “Alright, Prongslet: hows about we raid the pantry for something to help the potions go down?”

Harry can’t help but grin with his Godfather’s arm on him, and when Remus loops his arm around the other side, well. Something small and young inside him settles warm in his chest. 

(Family; though the word would never cross his mind).

—

Hermione refused to stop contact with the Weasleys once she made it to her parents’ house. Admittedly, she's only been owling with Ron, but he says he's run her theories past his siblings: no one seems to have any information on why Harry doesn't have to be at the Dursleys’, or what Pomfrey talked to him about besides his fits.

She isn't oblivious; she knows how skinny Harry is at the beginning of every term, has seen the oversized, worn-out muggle clothes he wears to the train station... It's obvious to anyone who mentions them around Harry that he and his relatives don't get on, and with what she (finally) got out of Ron about the summer before second year, Hermione knows the Dursleys aren't above inhumane treatment.

Harry was being abused. The only question is that of extent. Just how badly has her friend been treated, while she and Ron go home every summer to their loving parents? Hermione's parents have always pushed her, but she's never questioned their love for her. They just want to prepare her for a world against her for who she is. 

A world represented perfectly by people like the Dursleys. She's never met them, but she can tell what his guardians probably think about people “like her” from how Harry has reacted to her over the years. 

When they first met, she would catch him staring at her hair. It wasn't all the time, but it was enough that if he was white, she would have asked what his problem was. Subtlety is one skill Hermione has never claimed to have, so she was still a bit hostile when she eventually questioned him on it, and he was shier than she'd ever seen him when he responded:

_ “How do you get hair…  _ like ours…  _ so long?” _ So she explained what she knows, about hair texture and conditioning and protective styles (which still isn't much: she normally had her mother do her hair, though by now she knows enough basics that she can get it up and out of her way). As she spoke with him, it was as if she was exposing him to yet another new world he never knew had existed. 

Harry's not the only friend she's had with a set up like that; a seemingly nice white family taking in a black kid, only to ignore or outright hate all of their black parts. Ron's doing his best to understand (her comparison to hatred of ‘mudbloods’, while imperfect, seemed to help him grasp the significance) and, despite his general thick-headedness, he's just as adamant as her that Harry was mistreated by the Dursleys.

Which is something the boy in question wholly denies. In each of her letters to him, Hermione tried to ask about his family, and both Harry's responses skillfully avoided ever actually answering. 

Some part of her feels guilty about digging into a past Harry is so clearly trying to hide, but Harry never wants to talk about things when they're important (as in any of the numerous threats to his safety). 

All of this is to say, when Hermione steps through the floo of the Weasley house to meet the twins, Ginny, and Ron, she is very prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure Harry's safety.

“So Fred, George,” she starts, after checking that the elder Weasleys are out of earshot, “what else do you know about Harry that you haven't told us?”

The twins look surprised for all of a second, before quickly assuming slouched, overconfident postures and sure smirks that have their younger siblings glaring instinctively. “Why would you think-” Fred begins

“we would know-” George .

“anymore than you do?”

Hermione huffs, her hair bouncing with her frustration; “Because you two are too smart for your own good,” they can’t help their self-satisfied grins at that, “but you both know this is too serious to play games with.”

Fred sighs, “Quite right, Granger, quite right; though is there ever  _ really _ something too serious to play with?” Still, both the twins seem ready to get down to brass-tacks and brainstorm. As everyone begins to move upstairs, Ron lags behind, more than a little impressed at Hermione getting his brothers to give in so easily.

Once they’ve all gathered in the twins’ room (and a few careful silencing charms are placed), it’s Ginny who speaks up first, her voice softer than it’s been since her first year: “How bad are Harry’s relatives?”

Sitting cross-legged on his bed, George clicks his tongue; “As far as we can gather, they hate magic.”

“Through technically-not-illegal means, we got his medical records from the hospital wing—” Fred adds, but George jumps back in before anyone can get distracted by their means.

“—and the injuries and illnesses recorded start at ages for accidental magic.” Ginny gasps at that, and if Hermione hadn’t prepared herself for the possibility of physical abuse she would be hit just as hard. Ron, as is typical for him, gets angry, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.

George continues after checking silently with his twin that the younger wizards are ready; “Pomfrey has him on nutrient potions now, to fix ‘years of malnutrition’, and…” he has to stop to take a breath, and it is a testament to this untread territory that Fred doesn’t take over. “And when she asked him about it, he basically said that whenever they weren’t punishing him, he was ignored.”

The room is silent. 

It’s Ron who breaks it; with a quiet, but impassioned “ _ Merlin _ .” Then, once everyone commiserates with that sentiment, “So what are we doing about it?”

At that, Fred and George can share a grin; finally, something good they can share. “With our explicit approval and blessing,” Fred begins.

“Messrs Moony and Padfoot-”

“-known as Lupin and Sirius for those uninitiated-”

“will be taking custody of him.” George finishes with a flourish. 

While this has the other Weasley siblings breaking out into similar smiles, Hermione only has more questions; “How? With Professor Lupin’s status—with  _ Sirius’ _ status—how would the Ministry allow it?”

Surprisingly, it’s Ron who answers, scoffing; “As if the Ministry could stop them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was tempted not to post this at all because of how embarrassed i am at not updating for so long. this chapter is also shorter than i would like, but i tried to cram in a lot of good moments to make up for it. finally, we have someone taking snape down a peg (i dont mind if you like snape as a character, he was certainly fun to write, but the man abuses children like theres no way around that)  
> ive also been emphasizing using "young" when talking about marauders-era characters, because i feel like the casting in the movies made really hard to remember that theyre all only in their thirties at this point. up next i think i want to include a remus/sirius heart-to-heart, as well as some harry internal monologue cause i feel like his reactions to everythin are getting lost in the sauce  
> as always, comments cure my depression (even if they can't cure my posting schedule)


End file.
